The Onion Cellar
by worldaccordingtofangirls
Summary: Post-WWII: Throughout its history, Germany has worn a stoic face. Feliciano cannot teach a nation to cry, but he can at least help Ludwig to learn. GerIta. Oneshot. Idea derived from The Tin Drum.


**AN **- This story is based around a scene from the exquisite novel _The Tin Drum, _written by the German writer Gunter Grass. The full explanation can be found **here:  
><strong> worldaccordingtofangirls(.)tumblr(.)com(/)post(/)17925524259(/)notes-for-the-onion-cellar

**They are not essential** to understanding and enjoying the story, but if you are so inclined, just remove the parenthesis and you're good to go!

**PLEASE READ THEM AFTER FINISHING THE STORY.**

(Also, to those who know me from the USUK fandom – I've been feeling very guilty about being so remiss in updating my bigger projects. I promise an update in the next few days.)

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><p><em>The Onion Cellar<em>

Civilian dress. Feliciano has asked him to wear civilian dress. And Ludwig, in turn, has opened his closet and stood there for a while, slowly realizing that he no longer has any idea as to what the term entails. He thumbs through the clothes again, fingers grazing the stiff canvas fabric of old military uniforms, leaving the pins and medals that cling onto the breast pockets jingling in their wake. He doesn't really note the stains of sweat and dust and blood because these uniforms feel more like a second skin, and the stains more like scars, and what kind of man doesn't know the landscape of his own body, even if he is rendered an abandoned battlefield?

Finally, at the very back of the closet, he comes across an old dress shirt, clean save for a thin veil of dust. He shakes this away, not coughing because he doesn't need to, because these days the skies over Berlin snow and rain dust, and his lungs have been coated since the war began. He fingers the collar and is almost surprised to feel the softness of silk beneath his fingers; it is with a sudden eagerness that he unbuttons his dark green military jacket and slips out of his boots and trousers. He puts on the clean shirt almost reverently and is running his hands through his hair in the mirror when Feliciano walks in. His smiling face is a curious juxtaposition to the peeling grey walls of the apartment that the Allies have leased to Ludwig, where water stains form collages across the ceilings, where the air is old and seems to crumble in the lungs, smelling thickly of mildew and ash, and where conditions are still better than in the rest of shattered Germany.

Feliciano approaches Ludwig and presses a kiss to his mouth. Ludwig hardly blinks; he continues slicking back his hair with a methodical hand.

"Are you excited, Ludwig?" asks Feliciano. His grin never fades. Ludwig glances at him warily, straightening from the sink.

"How can I be excited when I don't know what you're planning?"

Feliciano laughs as if this were somehow funny. Then he raises himself on tiptoe to kiss Ludwig again and his mouth tastes like the color amber. Ludwig can't say how this is possible, but he can taste the sweet syrupy hue, similar to what is produced when a ray of sun strays into the bottom of a tumbler of whiskey. The kiss doesn't last very long; it never does because Ludwig never reciprocates, and soon Feliciano is breaking away, ducking his chin with a little sigh that isn't necessarily sad.

"Italy, why do you always do that?" He can't help but ask. "Kiss me, I mean. I've never said you could."

Feliciano doesn't shy away from his gaze; he never has, probably never will.

"Feliciano, call me Feliciano," he says softly, "tonight, we are not countries, we are men. I am Feliciano, and you are Ludwig." He smiles. "And, since you asked, it's because, _Ludwig_…" His accent lends a musical lilt to German; it is strange, but not unpleasant. "One day I know you'll kiss me back."

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><p>The cities of Germany are each a passage in a book, and their streets are the sentences, and Ludwig can clearly see every word, catch every nuance of prose and grammar and syntax and metaphor, each wrought in turn by the guns of an Axis or an Ally, the voice of a Nazi or a Jew, the mind of a Socialist or a Communist or a Fascist or a Capitalist, the heart of an Easterner or a Westerner, and it really doesn't matter anymore, because all Ludwig can see is destruction, and he doesn't care who authored the chapter, not when all he wants is for it to end.<p>

The streets are mostly quiet; only sometimes do lights flicker in windows and high heels or footsteps ring out against the pavement. It is autumn again and the air is crisp; their breath explodes in front of them. The route takes them by an abandoned jewelry shop and Ludwig is surprised to see it in such curiously pristine condition, the windows intact and swollen with jewelry. Then he spots the small hole in the side of one of the glass displays, cut perfectly round and smooth. It opens into the curve of an empty velvet bustier and two gold earrings rest at the side, delicately crafted and set with tiny rubies that catch the moonlight. Surely they are valuable, though value has changed a lot since the war began, counted now in bread and milk and life rather than in gold and jewels. Although Ludwig is puzzled by the strangeness of it all, he doesn't dally long, because Feliciano is tugging on his arm and he is only growing colder standing still like that.

It occurs to Ludwig that he doesn't recognize the street; he stops in his tracks. He knows every inch of Berlin - how could he forget his own heart - and yet he is suddenly disoriented. He feels a frightening sense of blankness.

"Feliciano…" He swallows as he realizes that he can hear the thud of music from not far off in the distance. "Where…"

Feliciano winds both arms around his elbow.

"Do you trust me, Ludwig?"

Ludwig hesitates before he realizes that he does, and tells Feliciano. His eyes glow brighter than the gold abandoned behind the jewelry store window.

"Then let your questions wait until the end." He presses two cold fingers to Ludwig's lips. "Please. For me, for me if nothing else."

They walk on towards the music, the soft strains lilting through the night air, each note punctuated by the authoritative voice of a drum, beating, beating, pumping the blood of the melody through the streets of what had previously been Berlin, but was now obviously not. Eventually a sign looms from the darkness: a battered slat of wood printed with a single onion, round and translucent white and feathered at the top. It is fat, too, like the kinds that were around before the war. Before Ludwig can wonder, he finds himself inside the tavern. The music surrounds him, the heartbeat of the drum blooming into his perception. He feels dizzy and blinks; it is not much lighter inside than out, but it is warmer. Some people talk over the thud of the drum, but most stay hunched over their drinks, expressions taught as if anticipating something.

"What are they waiting for?" breathes Ludwig, not expecting an answer. Feliciano smiles softly, taking his hand and leading him over to an empty table towards the back of the room.

"You should know, Ludwig," he says when they've sat down. "They're just like you."

Ludwig glances around himself. Directly to their right is a young couple gazing into their drinks. Further ahead, he can see a trio of grizzled old men, their shoulders knobby and awkwardly bent beneath their stiff suits. On their other side of the tavern, a young man sits alone, turning a photograph in his hands. When Ludwig cranes his neck, he can get a good view of the entire room. He sees people: men in dapper suits or crumpled work shirts, even exhausted military uniforms, and women in high heels and scarlet lipstick, their hair carefully curled at their ears. People are smoking, people are talking, people are drinking. Some people merely sit alone and sway in time with the music, with that grand authoritative drumbeat. The scene looks normal but Ludwig cannot shake that dreadful feeling of anticipation. He turns back to Feliciano with a shuddering sigh.

"You'll see," whispers Feliciano, touching his hand. "He likes to make an entrance, but it won't be long now."

Ludwig nods and grits his teeth. Suddenly, everyone releases a collective sigh, an enormous _ah _echoing from the walls_. _Ludwig looks up to the stage and sees a man. He is really nothing special except for a luxuriant blue and gold shawl which he wears about his shoulders; he smiles and waves and calls greetings to the people, thanking them for attending, promising them that they would begin very soon.

Begin _what, _Ludwig wonders desperately, but the man says no more before he disappears again. The terrible tension rushes back, but only for a moment; the man reemerges almost momentarily. He is carrying a little basket covered by a checkered cloth slung around his arm. He begins to weave through the tables, handing out something to each guest with a grin and a bob of his head.

The room fills with the low hum of conversation, but Ludwig gets the sense that nobody is really talking but rather more of skipping words around like stones, watching them leaping across the table as though it were a lake and the replies of the other guests the shallow undulations left on the surface of the water.

Finally, the host nears their table, and Ludwig is handed a small paring knife, the blade glinting in the dimness of the tavern, and a cutting board in the shape of a fish. Feliciano smiles brightly when he receives one in the shape of a pig. For his part, Ludwig glances around himself uncertainly. Each guest seems strangely fascinated with their little slat of wood; they examine it carefully or even trade with a neighbor because they prefer the shape of the fish to that of the pig, or the pig to the fish. The conversation has developed a more urgent rhythm. It complements the steady thudding of the drum and makes Ludwig's heart race despite himself.

The host comes around again and dispenses something new to the crowd. The conversation rises to a fever pitch. Ludwig tries to crane his neck to see what is causing excitement, but he has no luck until the host reaches the nearest people. He is shocked to see onions, simple onions, round and yellow and fat, awarded to each guest like trophies.

Ludwig shoots Feliciano a questioning look as they each receive an onion. He reaches out incredulously and turns it in his hand, watching the dim light reflect off the translucent white flesh. Feliciano merely smiles and promises Ludwig that he'll see, he'll see, soon. Ludwig tries to mumble his doubt, but his words are drowned as the host leaps to the stage and cries _ladies and gentlemen, help yourselves! _ The tension in the room seems to snap as everyone raises their knives and cuts into their onions in one decisive movement. Ludwig feels frantically compelled to follow suit.

Though he knows he is being ridiculous, he balances his onion on the cutting board, grabs his paring knife, and sinks the blade into the flesh. He is immediately met with the sharp smell of the juice and coughs. His eyes begin to water. He realizes that Feliciano is scrutinizing him, his knife paused in dicing his own onion into crisp little cubes. His amber eyes are unusually intent.

Ludwig opens his mouth, but falls silent because somewhere in the crowd, someone has begun to sob. Great heaving sounds blossom into the room one after the other. It is not long before the aria turns into a chorus; the room thunders with the sound of weeping. People wipe at the tears streaming down their faces even as they continue to slice through their onions with trembling hands. Ludwig swallows thickly.

"What is this…"

Feliciano meets his gaze unflinchingly. "Just keep going. You'll see."

Ludwig cannot say why, but soon he is back to methodically slicing at his onion, and eventually tears bloom at the corners of his eyes. Even though he knows they are the fault of the juice, he does not stop running his blade back and forth, back and forth. He cannot stop, he realizes, even though tears have begun to drip onto the cutting board. He glances at Feliciano. His eyes are dry, even though he has finished dicing his onion into fine bits. He is pushing them neatly over to one side of his cutting board.

"Feliciano," gasps Ludwig before a sob swells in his throat and he nearly chokes. He feels as if it is pushing up all the dust and blood and sweat and screams that have been clinging to his throat and lungs since the war began. Suddenly he is seeing and hearing and tasting and smelling and _feeling _the horror of the war, listening to the gunshots and the cries of the dead and wounded, watching the walls of Berlin crumble to dust beneath the weight of totalitarianism and despair, with the red of the Nazi armbands and the blood on the shattered glass of shop windows flashing brilliant before his eyes before it fades to an image of a silver-haired boy in a blue uniform kicking and screaming and biting at his bonds as he is dragged away to the other side of an impenetrable wall.

Ludwig sobs and sobs and cannot stop.

The feeling is so unfamiliar that he is panicking; he cannot remember the last time he has truly wept. How can he manage the heaving of his chest and the ragged come and go of his breathing, the trembling of his hands as they continue to attack the onion?

"It's alright, Ludwig," whispers Feliciano. "It's alright."

Ludwig finally finishes; he looks up, tears still streaming down his cheeks.

"Feliciano…" His voice has been rendered so raw by the sobs that it doesn't seem to belong to him anymore. "Why aren't you crying?"

Feliciano smiles sadly.

"Don't you see, Ludwig?" He covers his hand with his own. "I don't need to." He gives a sad smile. "I'm not strong like you."

Ludwig is silent for a moment, and then he laughs. Suddenly he is clutching at his stomach, doubled over with laughter that rolls through his body. He is still crying, but his lone peal of mirth spreads through the tavern like an infection, and soon everyone roars with the inexplicable hilarity of it all. The noise even goes so far as to drown out the music.

It silences everything but the thud of the drumbeat.

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><p>They walk home slowly that night. Eventually the strange city melts away and they have returned to the desolate streets of familiar Berlin, surrounded by rubble and dust and memories flitting between shadows. The wind is brisk; Ludwig's cheeks and nose are soon raw, but still he finds that he is smiling, that he cannot stop. How can he when he feels as if he has been freed from something that he didn't even know was trapping him?<p>

Beside him, Feliciano is smiling too, perhaps humming softly to himself, Ludwig can't quite tell; sometimes it seems that he is singing when he is actually only breathing, that the rise and fall of his every footstep is accompanied by a cheerful little note, that he creates music by doing little more than exist. They step under a yellow puddle of light cast by a streetlamp. Ludwig blinks in surprise. These days, it is so rare to have any lights whatsoever in the city during the night that he has almost forgotten what electricity looks like in the dark, how strong and yellow and artificial it is, and he marvels at how it casts strange shadows across Feliciano's face, marking out the gentle line of his smile and pooling in his eyes. He is holding his hands around his mouth and nose and breathing into the cup of his palms.

Ludwig swallows and reaches out to take one of his wrists. He marvels at how easily he can encircle the slender curve of bone with his fingers. Feliciano has enough time to lift his face questioningly before Ludwig kisses him, clumsily and uncertainly, but enough to get that amber taste across his lips. A moment passes, and then another. Feliciano reaches up and curves his hand around the back of Ludwig's neck. They stand like that for a while longer before they break apart, blinking in the lamplight as if this were the first time they had ever seen each other.

Eventually, Ludwig realizes that he is still holding onto Feliciano's wrist. He drops it with a muttered apology. Feliciano merely smiles and reaches for his hand again, winding their fingers together. He draws up close to his side, and it is then that Ludwig realizes that he is indeed humming to himself. The beat is familiar. It is the same rhythm that the drum marks back in the Onion Cellar, from the strange corner of Germany that even Ludwig hasn't known until then.

From where his people go to cry.

Feliciano breaks him from his reverie when he tightens his hold on his fingers as they fall into step beside each other.

"I always knew you would, Ludwig," he murmurs, voice falling into the darkness like a crescendo. "I always knew you would."

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><p><strong>AN –<strong> Again, the metaphor explanation can be found at the link at the beginning.

Thanks so much for reading!


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